


Ash and Bones

by Phoebe_Hunter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alive Laura Hale, Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Frock Coats, Insanity, M/M, Opium, Peter Hale deserves his own warning label, Probable Historical Inaccuracy, Romance, Sassy Peter Hale, Slow Burn, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/pseuds/Phoebe_Hunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Christopher Argent plays politics by day and hunts monsters by night. Lord Peter Hale is trying to rebuild his shattered family. They are not allies, and they are certainly not friends. But there is something hunting in the streets of London, and the stakes are higher than either of them can imagine. </p><p>Or: The Victorian AU nobody asked for. Any excuse to get Peter Hale into a frock coat. And then out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yes. This was initially supposed to be a few random Victorian AU snippets (probably smutty) and then suddenly there was plot and suddenly it had parts and before I knew it there were thousands of words and all these ideas. And none of the intended smut (don't worry, that comes later).
> 
> This is very much AU -- I have incorporated various things from all four seasons, and I have used plot points and characters mercilessly for my own ends. See the endnotes for my comments and excuses regarding historical accuracy. In the end, this is basically a long and laborious way for me to imagine Chris and Peter running around London flirting with one another. I have tried, however, to avoid terrible anachronisms wherever possible. 
> 
> Concrit is always welcomed, as are comments. Particularly as this is such a random project. 
> 
> In the next instalment, should I find the energy to write it: smut, gun fights, outrageous flirtation, Peter seriously underestimating Chris, Peter paying for that folly in the most delightful way possible. 
> 
> Other random notes: I found it really difficult to write Peter, in Chris' point of view, as "Hale", so let's just pretend it's normal for him to be thinking of Peter using his first name.
> 
> EDIT: I should say, for those who might be here for the Sterek or the Allydia, that it's only there if you squint at the moment. It will be more pronounced in the future. :)

Peter Hale could never get the taste of smoke out of his mouth.

He had rebuilt the house over the bones of his family, ignoring Derek’s rage and Cora’s tears. Laura had not resisted. She was older, wiser. She understood that the house had not been just a dwelling place; disposable and replaceable. It had been blood and love and the history of the Hales writ large in every beam, every nail. They had to rebuild from the ashes or not at all.

The new house echoed. It was too big for the four of them. Cora’s nightmares lodged in the shadowy corners, stretching out burning tendrils towards her bed, and Laura’s rage crackled through the empty rooms, hot and hungry. Peter saw ghosts, too. Wisps of colour and snatches of laughter on the stairs, in the kitchen, in the nursery.

“It will never be home,” he had once heard Derek say to Laura.

He hadn’t rebuilt the house to be a home, though. He had rebuilt the house to show he was not afraid. To show he was ready.

-

Chris Argent found the girl on the second night of searching – too late. He holstered his knives and knelt beside her on the slick cobbles. She stared up at him through wide green eyes, her blonde curls matted with blood and her throat gaping. She’d been opened neck to navel with a surgeon’s precision, unfolded like an envelope.

He struck a match and lit a candle; searching the ground around the body. She wore the remnants of a maid’s uniform, ripped and bloodied. Two fingers pressed to the side of her throat told him what he’d already suspected; she’d been dead for hours. Scavengers would have picked her clean of anything they could sell.

He closed her eyes with a gentle hand – he could give her that at least – and stood. The flickering candlelight caught the scratches on the wall and he stepped forward to trace the spiral with one finger.  _Vendetta._

He’d been conscious of being watched for some time. “You’re a long way from home,” he observed.

Lady Laura Rushmore – he would never quite manage to stop thinking of her as Lady Laura Hale – stepped from the shadows, her bare feet silent on the filthy ground. She pushed the heavy hood back from her face and he saw she had coiled her luxuriant hair into an intricate mass of twined braids.

“So are you.” She looked at him for a moment, head tilted, and then her gaze shifted to the girl and grief flashed across her face. She knelt, heedless of the bloody water pooling around her knees, and brushed a finger across the girl’s cheek.

“Who was she?” Chris asked.

“Amelia. My maid. Former maid, it would appear.” Lady Laura rose to her feet. “I will deal with the body.” The tenderness was gone from her face.

“She’s the fifth,” Chris said.

“The second werewolf,” she corrected. “The others were human.”

“And therefore not your responsibility?”

Lady Laura inclined her head. “As Amelia is not yours.”

“We…” Chris hesitated. “Our families worked together once, from time to time.”  

 _Not since the fire_ – the unspoken words hung between them. There were lines, carefully demarcated in blood and silver, between the Hales and the Argents.  

“I will tell Peter you would like to speak with him,” Lady Laura said, sliding one arm under the girl’s legs and another beneath her shoulders. She hefted the limp body without effort.

“Thankyou.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. “You might not thank me afterwards.”

-

_Insanity was interesting. The awareness that he was not quite right, not quite whole. A scratching in the corners of his mind, a fraying, the twang of something stretched too far for too long._

_Peter kept it under a tight rein._

-

Laura arrived home as the sun was rising, reeking of blood and dirt and carrying a body. Not all that unusual, but a bother. She made a terrible mess of one of the guest bedchambers preparing the body for burial and they were both horribly late down to breakfast.  

Cora, sensing their distraction, made a series of progressively more outrageous suggestions in the hopes one of them would consent without considering the implications.  

The butler handed out the morning’s messages and Peter began sorting his letters. Invitations to tedious events from tedious people, a bland and uninformative letter from the ever-dutiful Derek, a note from his stockbroker…

Laura’s heartbeat quickened for a moment and Peter glanced up. Laura shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and flicked her eyes towards Cora, who was devouring kippers with single-minded determination.   

Laura handed him the envelope as soon as Cora had left. The bloody spiral had been etched roughly onto a slip of silver paper. Peter upended the envelope and a few purple petals slipped free, followed by a shower of ash. The smell hit him like a punch to the gut. Burnt flesh and bone, oak and mahogany. He inhaled and for a moment he could hear the screams. 

“Interesting,” he said. He prised his claws out of the table, one by one.

“Argent would like to meet with you,” Laura said.  

“Oh? Will he accuse me of anything in particular, or is it to be a more generalised inquisition?” Peter buttered another piece of toast.

“I believe he wants to discuss the best way to deal with the…situation.” Laura pushed her plate away.

“I wasn’t aware that there was a situation.”

“The murders…”

“…are, thankfully, not our concern.”

“They are now. Amelia…”

“…was not one of us.”

“We have responsibilities,” Laura insisted. She reminded Peter so much of Talia sometimes that it hurt; lodged achingly beneath his ribs. She had Talia’s eyes, Talia’s long dark hair. Set her chin in exactly the same way. Had the same need to spread herself thin to protect everyone she stumbled across, the determination to keep everyone safe…

“If we do not act, we will be perceived as weak,” she continued. “Protecting the wolves of this city has always been our responsibility. It will not go unnoticed if we fail.”

As manipulative as Talia as well.

“I’ll consider it.”

Peter reached for the toast rack and realised Laura had eaten the last slice. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It all tasted of ashes anyway.

-

“Argent.”

“Hale.”

Sir Christopher Argent, Peter noticed, had lovely hands. Musician’s fingers. Killing fingers. He wore a wedding band but was otherwise unadorned; even his smoking jacket was unusually sombre. The boyish good looks of his Oxford days had hardened. Even in repose there was something watchful about him, a coiled energy and a cast to his shoulders that suggested he was always ready to move. There was a lick of pink scar tissue just below his right ear, coiling three fingers-widths along his jaw. Someone with a knife and a temper, Peter assumed.

Talia had always dealt with the Argents – she and Lady Victoria Argent had maintained a rapport born of mutual dislike and grudging respect. Peter’s encounters with Sir Christopher – Argent, always Argent in his mind – had been relatively infrequent and rarely remarkable. They ran with different crowds, so to speak.

“It was a mistake to meet here,” Peter warned, taking a seat and setting his whisky down on the table. “The gossips will spend the next year trying to discover what we were discussing.” He could already hear the murmurs of interest and feel the covert glances on the back of his neck. He had never liked White's, but it made for effective neutral ground.

“Let them.” Chris gave him a measuring look.

“I’m only concerned for your stock price.” Peter leant back in the armchair. “Shouldn’t I be speaking to Lady Victoria?”

“If you would prefer.” Argent’s particular brand of bland stoicism always made Peter want to needle, to provoke, to  _push._

Peter shuddered. “That won’t be necessary.”

-

_Chris remembered the Hale fire. The roar of the flame, the spray of glass as the windows exploded outwards, the screams and shouts of the spectators. The ring of the bells, the sick certainty that nothing in the house could have survived. And Peter Hale, staggering out of the wreckage, his clothes and hair aflame, a limp body under each arm._

-

Chris sometimes missed Talia Hale. Lady Hale had been, above all things, reasonable. Her younger brother made him uneasy; set the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. There was rawness in Peter’s mocking smile that made Chris think of blood and broken glass. Peter was always a little too well turned out, a little too tailored. It made Chris wonder just what lay beneath the impeccably cut suits and the wry half-smile. The soft blue of Peter’s smoking jacket and the sapphire pin in his cravat sharpened the blue of his eyes. Chris remembered an easy smile and ready laugh from their Oxford days.

Peter’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Laura told me you had some notion of us…cooperating.”

“We will be running around London tripping over one another if we do not work together,” Chris said.

“What gave you the impression I had any interest in pursuing the matter at all?”

“Lady Laura is interested.”

“Laura has some touching notions about our responsibilities.”

Chris shrugged. “If you are not interested, I can speak to Deucalion.”

Peter tilted his head. Chris had half expected anger, but Peter just looked amused. “Very _good_ , Argent,” he murmured. “Your father would be proud.”

Chris took a sip of his whisky. Peter would need to do better than that.

“I don’t play particularly well with others,” Peter said. He gave Chris a humourless smile that showed rather too many teeth.

Chris sighed. “I do not relish the idea either, I assure you.”

Peter's smile turned genuine. “Very well. I will agree to your proposal on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“We do the hunting. You and I. Together.”

Chris took another sip, buying time. He'd thought - been almost certain - that Peter would volunteer Laura.

“Why?” he asked.

“Perhaps I am only eager to for the pleasure of your company.”  

-

Laura's displeasure at their arrangement had been vehement and vocal. It was difficult to mount a logical defence of the strategy because Peter himself wasn't certain why he had proposed it; a desire to see how Argent would react. To see if he could crack the bland façade.

“This is not a game,” Laura snapped. She was looking particularly pretty in a lavender morning dress, though she was several shades paler than usual and there were dark stains under her eyes. She'd had trouble controlling the shift since the fire, trouble keeping herself contained. She always dressed with particular care the day after, as though she could smooth out the scratches with an elegant coiffure and a cup of tea.

Stupid, Peter had always thought, stupid to use another person as an anchor. Stupid to leave yourself vulnerable. Stupid to leave yourself _weak._

“Laura, you and I are both aware that this is unnecessary melodrama. I will keep Argent occupied and you can continue to do what you have always done.”

_Hunt for the ones who murdered your children._

He didn’t need to say it.

Laura's glare did not relent. “You did not even want to pursue the matter. What changed?”

Peter sighed and set his teacup down. “Perhaps I'm bored.”

“So you’re going to use this situation for your personal amusement and gratification?”

“Amusement, certainly. Gratification? I consider it unlikely. Don't be sanctimonious, Laura, it doesn't suit you.”

“Take care, then. We cannot afford any…untoward accidents.”

It was a worthy parting barb.

 -

_Peter woke in the gardens sometimes with blood under his nails and dirt on his face. Spent sleepless nights following the faint scent of smoke from room to room. Fell asleep and dreamt of Laura’s claws tearing into his face and torso as she screamed and fought to break his hold, the choking, gurgling helplessness as blood filled his mouth and the flesh fought to knit and failed._

_He dreamt of death and darkness and stone beneath his fingers. But mostly he dreamt of fire._

-

Peter was late. Twilight had cast its shroud over the streets and Whitechapel's denizens were beginning to emerge, heading for the grog shops and the brothels. Chris kept his cap pulled down and slouched back against the wall, keeping a careful eye on the street.

If he hadn't been looking, he wouldn't have recognised Peter. He was simply and sombrely clad, the starkness of his clothes emphasising the angularity of his face. His stride was even and confident but he had shed some of the aristocrat from his posture, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders a little bowed; a man at the end of a long day searching for solace. He joined Chris against the wall.

“You're late,” Chris said.

“I don’t always come when I’m called. What tenuous lead are we supposed to be pursuing tonight?”

Chris pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket and struck a match.

“Filthy habit,” Peter wrinkled his nose.

Chris ignored him, inhaling deeply. “Three of the murdered women had connections to a particular opium den,” Chris explained, exhaling smoke. “It was raided recently, and its patrons appear to have moved on. It is a worth a look.”

“And the three wolves?”

“I don't know if there was a connection.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply (Chris assumed it would be acerbic), but was cut off by a buxom young woman who seized him by the arm. “Two ‘andsome lads like you shouldn't be all alone,” she purred, presenting Peter with a large expanse of creamy bosom and pursing her carmine lips.

She reached for Peter's face. Peter caught her wrist before her fingers touched his cheek.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he said, giving her a smile that was three quarters sin. His voice had dropped to a purr. “Christopher? I can wait.” He turned the look on Chris, one eyebrow raised.

Chris refused to be provoked. “No thankyou.”

The woman pouted, running a hand down the front of her gauzy dress and giving them a knowing look. “Come on, boys. I don' normally take two at once, but I'll make an exception if you'd prefer…”

Peter's chuckle was husky. “An _interesting_ proposition.” He gave Chris a languorous once-over. “But I'm afraid we have business elsewhere.”

The woman flounced away in search of better business and Peter straightened.

“Shall we?”     

-

They fell into a silence that was not quite companionable as they walked the familiar streets. Peter hoped the whore would put the coin he'd slipped into her hand to good use. She had, after all, deserved a little something for giving him such a delightful opportunity to hear Argent's hearbeat trip in indignation.

“You did not invite your charming younger sister?” Peter asked.

“This requires…a certain finesse,” Argent admitted. “Kate’s preference is to shoot first and ask questions, if necessary, once everything is dead.”

“And you asked me instead? Dear me.”

Argent stopped in front of a nondescript black door and extracted a lock pick.

Peter cast his eyes heavenwards. “Allow me.” He snapped the lock off with a single twist of his wrist and pushed the door open. “After you.”

He didn't doubt that Argent was reluctant to have a wolf at his back, but the man stepped through in and began the descent without seeming discomfiture. He didn’t see the wire stretched across the bottom stair, though, until his boot lodged under it. Peter caught the crossbow bolt a feather’s width away from his breastbone. Argent froze, breath catching, as Peter released the arrow and it clattered to the ground.

“You,” Argent began.

“Live in unholy fear of your wife, Argent. Believe me.”

Argent picked up the arrow and held it close to the candle.

“No insignia, and no manufacturer's mark,” he observed. He snapped off the head and the fletching and tucked them into his coat.

The room still bore the remnants of its previous use; tattered crimson hangings, torn cushions and several upturned braziers. The smell could not have been called pleasant. A rat scuttled across the floor as they advanced.

“What can you smell?” Argent asked.

Peter dragged a finger through the coating of dust on the table. “Fear. Sweat. Sex.” He paused, head tilted. “Blood.”

“Anything that might tell us something we do not already know?”

There was something…barely perceptible, but there, simmering beneath the cloying fragrance of opium and human misery.

“Wolfsbane.”

Chris frowned. “What would wolfsbane be doing in an opium den?”

“Come now, Argent. You know that wolfsbane in low doses can render werewolves susceptible to alcohol or opiates.”

“Rather a large risk to get foxed.”

Peter laughed, knocking a nest of pillows with his foot and dislodging an indignant rat. “No more dangerous than opium to humans.”

They conducted a methodical and unproductive search of the room which turned up several more rats but nothing of use. A door at the end of the room stood ajar, buckled off its hinges. Chris advanced again, and Peter could almost taste his discomfort at leaving his back exposed. 

“Argent, if I wanted to kill you I wouldn't do it in such a painfully obvious way. Stop worrying about your back and start watching where you're going.” 

-

_Lord Peter Hale’s appearance at Lady Castlereagh’s winter ball, six months after the fire, stopped several dancers in their tracks and sent whispers eddying around the room. The rumours had been quick to proliferate after his disappearance; he was dead, he was terribly scarred, he was locked in an asylum._

_He advanced down the stairs, accompanied by the three younger Hales, looking as elegant and aloof as ever. All four of them were in unrelenting black. It was designed to be a spectacle, and from the slight curve of Peter’s lips he knew he’d succeeded in making quite the entrance._

-

Peter enjoyed masquerades. They brought out the Bacchanalian in the best of people. The heavy sweetness of excitement and arousal overlaid the soft scent of the floral bouquets and the aroma of wine. Laura, a dark and lovely Sekhmet, had taken to the dancefloor. Always a huntress. Derek, looking appropriately surly as Anubis, was locked in conversation with a young man whose hands never seemed to stop moving as he spoke. Cora sparkled beside him as Hathor, the beaded collar bright against her bare throat.

His eyes found the Argents almost immediately; Lady Victoria’s crimson hair was bound up in intricate braids, a spear in her right hand and a beautiful golden shield in her left. Argent’s plumed helmet and crimson cloak made a pleasant change to his usual sobriety of dress. Peter wondered whether his wife or his daughter had bullied him into the ensemble.

A flash of colour caught his eye. A cascade of strawberry blonde curls fell from a simple wreath of flowers to the girl’s waist. Her dress was perfectly appropriate, but the green silk fell in a way that suggested curves, skin, softness. Her lips parted in laughter and she tossed her head. She was very beautiful, but there was something about her…

“Who is that?”  

Cora followed Peter’s gaze. “Lydia Martin. This season’s paragon of incomparable loveliness.”

Peter could believe that.

He claimed a waltz from her, aware that doing so would have the society matrons scenting blood. He’d never expressed (or had) any real interest in debutantes. But Miss Martin smelt of vanilla and cinnamon and the woods on in autumn. Rain and rot.

Interesting, Peter thought. Very interesting.

She was light in his arms, murmuring polite answers to his questions, but her attention was elsewhere. Her eyes followed the silver-clad form of Allison Argent, who was clasped firmly but respectfully in the arms of Mr Scott McCall. Miss Argent’s hair was loose down her back and the simple silver chiton flattered her slender figure. Delicate sandals and a quiver slung across her back completed the ensemble.

Artemis. How appropriate.

Peter released Miss Martin with a courtly bow at the end of the dance. She looked at him with wariness in her eyes that belied the flirtatious toss of her head and her light laughter. Miss Argent materialised by her side, slipping an arm through hers and inclining her head politely.

“Good evening, Lord Hale. Might I borrow Lydia?”

“Of course. Enjoy your evening, Miss Martin, Miss Argent.”

Peter watched them walk away, head tilted together, conscious that he was not the only one watching them. Argent’s face was impassive, but his blue eyes were troubled.

  -

Chris melted back into the shadows as Isaac Lahey, Vernon Boyd and Scott McCall walked past, locked in a fierce argument. The gardens were deserted – the chill of the night was keeping the courting couples and ardent lovers inside.

“We need an alpha.” Chris couldn’t tell who was speaking.

“Running with Hale is beginning to look like a death sentence. Amelia, Gerard, Fiona…do you honestly believe it is a coincidence that they were all linked with the Hales?”

The three of them halted next to the fountain and Chris had to strain to hear them over the soft burble of running water.

“They were not his. They were not _pack_.”

 _“_ Do I need to remind you what happened to his pack?”

“He was not the alpha then.”

“No, and Talia Hale could not protect them. Do you honestly believe he can?”

“Now, boys, a lesser man might take exception to that suggestion.”

The three young men jumped as Peter stepped into the moonlight. Chris couldn’t blame them for their shock; Peter could have been death incarnate. The pleats of his skirt fell to his knees and his eyes shone crimson behind the hawk-headed mask. The moonlight smoothed the corners of the mask, blending them into his skin until he looked for all the world like Horus come to life. There was a silkiness to his tone that set the hair on the back of Chris' neck prickling.

“Lord Hale, we didn't--” McCall began.

 Peter held up a hand. “I am not interested in taking in strays.” His voice was light, almost amused. “Mr Lahey is quite correct though. This is a dangerous city for an omega.”

Peter hadn’t even extended his claws and yet Chris could almost taste the violence simmering just beneath the surface. See the blood on the ground. Lahey’s eyes flickered to gold and he dipped his head. “Will you excuse us, Lord Hale? We should return to the ballroom.”

“Of course. Take care, boys. You never know what could be lurking in the shadows.”

Chris let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding as the three men retreated back to the ballroom. Peter stood watching them go.

“Keeping an eye on me, Argent?”

Chris stepped out of concealment. “I was keeping an eye on them.”

Peter pulled the mask off and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Damned uncomfortable thing. I hope you were impressed by my forbearance.” He leant back against the lip of the fountain, the spray misting his face.

“You would be stronger if you took them in,” Chris remarked.

“Was that a suggestion, Argent?”  

“An observation.”

-

_Foolish children. He could have ripped their throats out before they’d even realised her was there. He could almost feel the flesh tearing under his claws, the sighing shudder as life faded to death. Almost taste the hot spray of blood on his lips._

_It would have felt good._

-

“I did not know London _had_ this many dens of iniquity.” Peter nudged a desiccated corpse aside with his foot. He was thoroughly sick of spending his nights one step behind...whoever it was. Argent was restless as well. Six bodies, several weeks, and they were no closer to an answer. “Honestly, Argent, if we do not find something soon I’m going to start suspecting you of drawing this out to prolong the pleasure of my company.”

Argent paused in the centre of the room, knife in hand. “Be careful,” he murmured. “Something isn’t right here.”

Something (undoubtedly unpleasant) crunched under Peter’s foot. “I quite agree.”

Peter pulled a curtain aside and heard something tear. The sudden deluge of vile smelling liquid drenched his hair and splattered his coat. He had time for one horrified moment of comprehension and then Argents’ arms caught him around the chest and they crashed to the ground.

There was a roar and a blast of heat and Peter could smell singeing hair. Argent’s hands fastened over his wrists, pinning him down. And Peter would have moved, but his mouth was full of smoke and for a moment he was paralysed.

“Stay down,” Argent breathed against his ear. “Stay _still_.”

Everything in Peter _screamed_ at him to fight, to run. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood and held himself perfectly still, choking down the fear until he could barely breathe. He had his face buried in the crook of Argent’s neck, his lips a fingerswidth from the bare skin, and he could smell the blood pulsing, just beneath the surface. It would have been so very easy…

“Don’t move.” They were chest to chest and Peter could feel the rough rhythm of Argent’s breath, the tautness of the muscles in his stomach. The steady pounding of Argent’s heart caught him and steadied him. Peter inhaled leather and sweat and the faint spice of cologne and let the scents overwhelm him, let the sensation chase out the nauseous heat of terror.

Argent’s grip on his wrists slackened as seconds trickled past and nothing happened.

“As much as this is delightful, Argent, I think we can safely assume that the danger has abated.” Peter managed to keep his voice steady but he knew his eyes were oscillating between red and blue as he tried to assert control. Funny, how much fear tasted like blood. And this was a weakness Argent should never have seen; a sick shame that _nobody_ should have seen.

Argent raised himself up slowly, poised and ready. As soon as he was on his feet he offered Peter a hand. Peter ignored it and stood, running cautious fingers over his healing ribs.

“Next time you decide to pin me to the ground I would appreciate a little more care concerning the placement of your elbows.” Peter’s desire to tear his clothes off, to get the substance away from his skin, was almost overwhelming. The acrid smell tore down his throat every time he inhaled. He shrugged out of his coat and used its lining to towel off his hair.

“Look,” Argent said, stepping closer to examine the wall at Peter’s back. The fire had seared a spiral into the stone of the wall. “This is personal.”

“I _am_ glad I have you along, Argent. I would never have worked that out on my own.”

Chris ignored the sarcasm. “Wolfsbane is expensive. So are alchemists. I am beginning to think we are looking in the wrong places.” Chris knelt to collect a small vial of the ash on the floor.

“Any ideas as to who our enterprising alchemist might be?”

“No.” Peter almost missed the trip of Chris’ heart. It was such a small thing, only two or three quick pulses before it settled back. “Shall we continue?”

Peter didn’t have to feign outrage. “ _You_ may be happy to traipse around the darkest corners of London covered in flammable liquid, but I plan to return home before someone lights a cigarette in my proximity and sets me on fire. I need a bath, Argent. So do you.”

_And I need to think about why you are lying to me._

-

Peter was reclining, shrouded in a cloud of smoke, his shirt half unbuttoned and sticky with sweat. His pupils were so far dilated that his eyes looked black, his hair tousled and damp with sweat, his hands limp at his sides. He looked utterly indolent, utterly debauched, and his mouth curved into a lazy smile as he looked up at Chris through lowered lashes.

“Argent.”

Chris had expected anger. It was the sudden stab of desire, hot and low in his belly, that nearly rocked him backwards. The urge to run his hands through that dishevelled hair, to bite those full lips, to put his hands all over Peter's body and see just how it felt to have Lord Peter Hale gasping for breath and moaning his name. The need to put his teeth against the pale column of Peter’s throat and to bite down, to watch the bruises blossom and fade, to know whether Peter would bite his lip to try to stay silent, to see what Peter would look like with his blue eyes blown wide with desire and blood on his lips…

Chris could only thank Providence that the reek of opium and sweat probably masked the smell of his desire.    

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.

Peter gave him a wounded look. “Reconnaissance. Dear me, Argent, don't look so grim. You'll strain something.”

“There has been another murder,” Chris said, keeping his voice just above a whisper.

Peter's gaze sharpened. “Who?”

“One of Deucalion's. We need to move.”

Peter extended a languid hand. “I might need some assistance,” he admitted.

Chris grabbed Peter's forearm and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, trying to ignore the warmth of Peter's skin through his damp shirtsleeve. Peter staggered and Chris hooked an arm around his waist without thinking, steadying him. Peter threw a companionable arm over Chris' shoulders and leaned into him.

“Gently, Argent, there's no need to be quite so rough,” he murmured, his breath hot against Chris' ear.

“You can walk by yourself if you object,” Chris bit out.

He felt rather than heard Peter's chuckle. “I did not say I objected, Argent.”   

-

The cold air hit Peter like a blow. He shook his head, trying to loosen the heavy haze of the opium. Argent's slap caught him square on the cheek. He snarled and Argent snarled right back.

“Get yourself under control. We don not have time for this.”

This time he caught Argent's wrist before the blow landed. “A moment.”

He closed his eyes, inhaling and letting the sounds of the night creep up around him. The soft murmurs and brush of silk from the opium den below, the distant shouts of drunkards and the calls of the Whitechapel whores, the whisper of the wind. The steady rhythm of Argent's heart and the beat of his own. He let his consciousness sink down, sending tendrils through his veins, immersing himself in the cadence of his breath and the rushing of his blood. The poison was there, smoke in his veins. He caught it up and began to force it out, ignoring the pain building in his eyes and nose..

His breathing was ragged by the time he was done, and Argent was watching him with something that almost looked like admiration. He reached for his handkerchief and discovered it was missing.

“Could I trouble you for a handkerchief?”

Argent handed his over and Peter dabbed delicately at his nose and eyes. The handkerchief came away stained black.

“I thought you could not force wolfsbane from your bodies.” Argent didn't sound particularly interested, but the intensity in his eyes belied his even tone.

Peter shrugged. “It was a small amount.”

“I see,” Argent said, and Peter rather thought he did.

-

_Peter was not surprised – not really – by the desire to take Argent apart piece by piece, to wreck him and see him wanton and wanting. He was a wolf at heart and he liked to stalk, to hunt, to feel the hot twist of triumph as flesh yielded, blood spurted. To bite down and taste death._

_Death had many guises._

_No, Peter was not surprised by his own desire. But the lust he had smelt on Argent in the opium den?_

_That surprised him._


	2. Blood and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter pays a visit to an alchemist. Chris loses his temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! I know, I actually can't believe how long it's been since I updated this (or anything). It's been a crazy year. Anyways, I was going to write this in two parts only, but I decided to make it three and post this here now. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Violence and some implied gore, sexy tiems. 
> 
> As always, comments feed the muses.

Adrian Harris was not a particularly brave man. Peter almost regretted that -- it would have been somewhat more satisfying if Harris had been a little more resilient. He stepped back from the alchemist  and pulled his handkerchief out, wiping his fingers clean. "Are you a student of psychology, Mr Harris?" 

 "What? Please…"

Peter silenced him with a raised finger. "It might surprise you to know that I am, in my own way." He removed his coat, draping it over the corner of Harris' desk. "Only an amateur, of course."

"I told you what you wanted! Please, I don't know anything else…"

"I know." Peter kept his voice soft, soothing. Harris was trembling, his fear as sharp and acrid as smoke. "The fire effected us all in different ways, you know." Peter unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows. "Cora has nightmares. Laura can't control her shift. Derek is…well, Derek is Derek. And I have…a certain appetite for violence."

Harris shrank back as Peter took a step forward. "I didn't know what she'd do!" he gabbled. "I swear I didn't know! I didn't…"

"Shh," Peter said, brushing gentle fingers down Harris' cheek. "There are two schools of psychological thought regarding violent urges." Peter extended his claws, one by one, and examined them. "One emphasises the importance of restraint. Suppression."

"I helped you! I…"

"The other," Peter continued. "Suggests that it's important to find an outlet for those urges. A way to prevent them from building up and becoming uncontrollable. A release, of sorts."

Peter's fingers settled on Harris' throat, the gesture gentle enough to be a caress.

 "Please," said Harris again

He didn't say anything else.   

-

Chris eyed the scene with clinical detachment as Kate examined Harris' body. It wasn't a pleasant sight. Blood had splattered almost every visible surface, spraying up the walls and pooling under Harris' body where it lay sprawled on the desk. Chris bit back a curse. He'd meant to call on Harris later in the day.

"Definitely claws," Kate observed, bending closer to the ruin of Harris' chest.. "The spacing, the ragged edges."

"A savage attack," Chris agreed. "But motivated by what?"

"You said there was an alchemist involved in the trap left for you and Hale."

"Are you suggesting this is Hale's handiwork?"

Kate shrugged. "It fits."

"There's nothing that would link Hale to this."

Something glinted as a ray of sunshine filtered through the curtained windows. Chris knelt, reaching under the desk.

"There are shallow cuts on his face and arms. Whoever it was wanted him to talk before they killed him."  There was something in Kate's voice that set Chris back on his heels. Something that sounded almost like fear. "What are you doing, Chris? Is there something there?"

Chris closed his fist around the ruby cravat pin. "Nothing."

-

“Our respective legacies appear to be in jeopardy,” Peter observed.

Miss Argent and Miss Martin were deep in conversation, heads close together. Miss Martin's red curls were piled atop her head, and when she threw her head back to laugh Peter saw Miss Argent's eyes fix on the curve of the other woman's throat.

Derek had arrived home several days earlier looking customarily surly and towing a stripling with tousled hair and wide eyes. Peter had never encountered anyone with the same need to be in constant motion; Mr Stilinski’s fingers were always moving, drumming out rhythms on the furniture, twisting in his clothes or his hair, toying with tassels and serviettes. He and Derek bickered almost constantly, but their jibing had an affectionate edge that made Peter wonder…

Derek’s temperament wasn’t markedly improved but Peter supposed that might have been too much to hope for. The two young men were engrossed in conversation, leaning nearly as close as Miss Argent and Miss Martin.

For a moment he thought Argent would pretend not to know what he was talking about, but the other man only sighed.

“I have something that belongs to you," Argent told him.

"Oh?"

Argent opened his hand. The ruby tie pin sat on his palm. Peter took it and tucked it into his breast pocket.

"What did Harris tell you before he died?" Argent asked.

"There was a woman. A blond woman."

Argent opened his mouth to say something but something crackled in the air and Peter spun to look at Miss Martin. The young woman was frozen in place, her face blank of all expression. Miss Argent leant in, exclaiming in concern, and Miss Martin opened her mouth and screamed.

Peter reeled backwards, clapping his hands to his ears. He could feel it in his teeth, in his bones. The smell of blood flooded his nostrils and he bolted for the gardens, the scream still echoing in his ears.

Miss Martin  had interrupted the butchery. Interrupted, but not prevented; he could smell the blood soaking into the ground, too much blood for anyone to lose and survive. Erica Reyes’ head lolled over the end of the bench, her golden curls trailing in the dirt, the front of her dress soaked crimson.

Mr Boyd’s cry became a sob as he flung himself onto the grounds beside the body. He looked up at Peter with eyes golden with grief and rage.

“Please,” he said.

A moment of deliberation – not a long one, not this time – and Peter sank to his knees beside the girl, fangs lengthening. He glanced up. Argent was watching them, face revealing nothing. Mr Boyd gathered the woman’s blood-soaked form into his eyes, cradling her face between his hands. Peter raised one shoulder in a shrug.

Argent inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod.

-

“He’s trying to build up his pack,” Kate insisted, slamming both hands down on the table and sending the cutlery jumping. “He’s planning something.”

Victoria set her teacup back into its saucer and gave Kate long look. “Are you proposing we should do anything in particular in response?”

“Act now,” Kate said. “Before they’re stronger.”

“And do what?” Chris’ voice was sharper than he’d intended; Kate and Victoria turned to him in surprise. He set his cutlery down and steepled his fingers. “The Hales have not broken out agreement. Miss Reyes would have died without the bite, and the omegas were entitled to join whichever pack they chose.”

“And now he has four new wolves, all young, all strong." Kate set down her knife and fork and caught Chris' gaze.  Careful, Chris.” Her voice was candy sweet. “I do hope you aren’t getting attached. I suppose it must be difficult not to develop a certain…affection for Lord Hale. To have him with you night after night, at your  _back_ …”

“Kate,” Victoria’s voice cracked like a whip. “Enough.”

Kate looked away but Chris knew the curl of her lips was from satisfaction. “A poor jest,” she said.   

"Chris is right," Victoria said. "Hale has done nothing wrong." Chris could almost hear the not yet that hung unspoken between them.

"And if he does?"

Victoria took a delicate bite of her beef. "Then we will deal with him."

-

“What's bothering you, Argent? You're as fidgety as a debutante at her first ball.” Peter blew out smoke and leant back against the cushions. They were getting closer. He could taste it. This particular opium den was open by invitation only -- and Peter could sense at least three other werewolves in the room.

“The Calaveras are in London,” Argent said. “They have…certain suspicions about the murders.” The hunter had, for the sake of appearances, had to imbibe a small amount of the drug. The black of his dilated pupils had almost swallowed the blue of his irises, and there was a certain languor to his movements as he passed Peter the pipe.

“Araya Calavera has never been fond of me. Do I have a motive, or was it merely a murderous rampage?” Peter could taste Argent's mouth on the lip of the pipe. He let his eyes slide over the hunter's body, lingering on the open throat of his shirt. The air inside the opium den was stifling and the fabric clung to Argent's chest.

"The latter, I believe." If Argent was aware of Peter's gaze he was ignoring it.

"When do they plan to act on those suspicions?"

Argent hesitated. Peter leant across him, reaching for his coat. He could feel the heat of the hunter's skin, smell the saltiness of his sweat.

"Hale," Argent said.

Peter turned his head. He could have closed the distance between their mouths with a movement of his head.

Heat flashed in Argent's eyes and his fingers closed on Peter's shoulder. His breath was hot against Peter's lips. "Don't make me regret protecting you."  

-

_The bunch of flowers arrived just before noon. Chris waited for the maid to leave before he parted the fronds. The human heart sitting in the centre of the bunch was still bloody. He tore open the accompanying envelope and an arrowhead tumbled out, embossed with the sign of the Calaveras. The note was in Peter’s clear, bold hand._

Je protége ce qui est mien.

-

“Thankyou for the flowers.” Chris got off two shots and ducked a wild blow form his assailant. He rammed his knife up, under the man’s ribs, and kicked the body backwards into a second attacker. Later, he thought, he might wonder at how natural it felt to have Peter fighting at his back, the confidence that attack wouldn't come from that direction.

“Were you flattered? I haven’t sent anybody flowers since my days as an eligible bachelor.” Chris turned his head in time to see Peter’s claws bite deep into a throat. Blood spurted, splattering both of them.

“I was under the impression from Miss Martin that you were still an eligible bachelor.”

“Confirmed,” Peter corrected, delivering a backhanded blow that snapped his attacker’s neck. “I believe I am now considered to be a confirmed bachelor.”

“The Calaveras have left.” Chris twisted to avoid a knife-thrust and used the follow through to ram his own blade between the man’s shoulder blades. “They formally denounced Carlos as a rogue.” A surprise, that – part of Chris wondered what exactly Peter had said to the hunter who’d staggered back, bloodstained and babbling. The rest of him didn’t want to know.

“Hmm,” Peter was watching as the last of their attackers tried to drag himself away from the fray, one leg twisted at an impossible angle. “Interesting”

“Don’t play with your food,” Chris said. “It’s disgusting.”

Peter grinned, all fangs and blood-stained lips, and pounced.

-

Argent cracked first. That did surprise Peter. Surprised him in the few moments of clarity he had before his world narrowed to Argent's mouth, Argent’s hands, Argent’s body. He had wanted to take Argent apart, see the other man bare and wrecked and wanting, but it was his own voice that broke over the hunter’s name, his own hands buried in Argent’s hair, his head tilting to bear his throat for Argent's teeth.  

Argent's tongue trailed up the side of Peter's throat, Argent's hands sliding down to the waistband of Peter's trousers.

He was Lord Peter Hale, not some furtive back-alley fuck. He told Argent so and Argent laughed against his mouth, low and rough.

"Are you sure you won't make an exception?" Argent's' teeth caught Peter's earlobe.

Peter let one hand slide down to press against the front of Argent's trousers and Argent's breath caught. "Privacy has it's advantages," he murmured. 

"I have a safe house nearby."

Argent shrugged out of his jacket and stripped off his shirt as soon as the door closed behind them. He wasn't a young man but his body was lean and muscular, peppered with the scars of his trade. He met Peter's gaze, unabashed.

"You are full of surprises, Argent," Peter said, peeling off his own shirt folding it neatly. 

"Did you want me to blush and demur like a virgin on her wedding night?" Argent's eyes raked Peter's bare chest, and Peter could hear the slight hitch in his heartbeat, the sweet intensity of his desire.

"The idea is not without it's appeal" 

"Always a predator." 

"Oh, I don't know, Argent." Peter closed the distance between them. He laid a hand against Argent's chest, ghosting his nails down to the waistband of Chris' trousers. "I think you'll find I'm sometimes very…accommodating." He dropped to his knees and looked up at Argent, licking his lips.

Argent exhaled shakily, his fingers settling in Peter's hair. "Perhaps I will," he murmured.   

-

“God,” Chris gasped, “Please.” It has been a long time -- too long, perhaps -- since Chris had had a lover who could make him beg, who could draw out the sweetness of pleasure until it trembled on the verge of pain.

Peter bent his head and caught the droplet of sweat trickling down Chris’ throat with his tongue. Chris arched his back, his fingers tightening in Peter’s hair, and Peter shifted his hips to deny Chris the friction he sought.

Pete's lips found Chris' jawline and he let his teeth graze the hunter’s pulse point. "You're pretty when you beg, Argent," he said against Chris' ear. Peter caught Chris' wrists and pinned them to the bed. His mouth found Chris' and Chris could taste himself on Peter's lips.

Peter sank down, agonisingly slowly, and Chris flung his head back, his breath stuttering. Peter leant forward, his mouth brushing Chris', his teeth catching Chris' lower lip and tugging.  

“Christ.” Chris shuddered beneath him, his fingers digging bruises into Peter’s hips.

“’Peter’ is perfectly sufficient.”

-

“You brought him here.” Derek pursued Peter up the stairs. Chris’ body lay limp in Peter’s arms. “You brought one of them here?”

Peter turned on him with a wordless snarl as Laura appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in an enveloping dressing gown. “What do you think the Argents would have done if I’d left him on the street?”  

Peter kicked his bedroom door open and laid the hunter’s body on the bed. Blood still oozed from the wound on Chris’ head, staining the white pillow.  

Laura was already busy at the washbasin, methodically ripping one of Peter’s shirts into strips and dampening them. Peter tore of Chris’ blood-soaked shirt with a single motion. The scratches across his stomach were deep; too deep. Laura’s mouth twisted when she looked at them.

“What happened?”

“We were ambushed.” Peter shrugged off his coat and began rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“How can I help?” Erica materialised at Laura’s elbow. Scott, Vernon and Isaac had gathered in the doorway beside Derek, watching the tableau. 

“We need to disinfect those cuts,” Laura said, handing Erica a bottle of alcohol. “The head wound is ugly but these are what will kill him. You can hold him down.”

Erica gave the men in the doorway a scornful look. “Are the four of you going to do anything useful or are you just going to stand there gawping?”  

Peter took a step forward and the room began to buckle.  

“Peter?” Laura asked. “Peter, what’s…”

Peter put out a hand to steady himself. “Wolfsbane on the claws. One of them got me in the thigh. Must have nicked…” He was on his knees. He didn’t remember kneeling. “…an artery,” he finished. There were hands on his shoulders but all he could smell was his own blood, thick and metallic.

-

_Something was burning. Peter jerked as pain blazed down his thigh. He was burning. Trapped and burning and…he surged up, trying to tear his way free. He could hear them screaming. They wouldn’t stop screaming. Talia was holding them close, trying to soothe them, telling them to be brave, but then she was screaming too, hair catching like tinder and bones melting._

-

Chris opened his eyes. Everything hurt. He took an experimental breath and pain shot through his stomach.

“Lie still,” Laura Hale’s face swam into focus, haggard and drawn. “You have three broken ribs and whatever it was that attacked you nearly ripped your guts out.” She turned. “Erica, get him some water.”

He tilted his head. Peter was lying on the bed beside him, clad only in a loose pair of drawers. Heavy chains stretched from his wrists and ankles to the headboard and the base of the bed.

“What..?”

“Wolfsbane on the blades. We had to burn it out.” Her face was grim. “I don't know whether he will be…himself, when he wakes up.”

“Victoria…”

“Lady Argent was informed of your whereabouts. She wasn't happy at leaving you to…'my tender mercies', was the phrase she used, but she could see that we couldn't move you.”

Laura bustled out, and Chris turned his head to look at Peter. Peter's face was untroubled, his brow smooth, but his hands were clenched into fists. His eyes flickered open as Chris watched.

"Peter?" Chris asked.

Peter shifted, the chains clinking. "If you'd wanted to chain me up, Christopher," he said. "You could have just asked."

Chris told himself that his relief was purely pragmatic.

 -

Allison was waiting for Chris on the steps, slender and winsome in a pink morning dress scattered with flowers. She ran to him and stopped just before she reached him, rolling back on her heels.

“Are you still hurt? Can I…”

Chris gathered her carefully into his arms and she buried her head against his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m all right.”

“I know,” she said. “They told me everything.”

Chris froze, detached her fingers gently from his shoulders. He should have known. Should have guessed. Kate had been leaving clues like breadcrumbs for Allison to follow, a trail of hints and insinuation.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I want to learn. I want to help.”

“I know.” He took her hands. “Allison…” He traced his thumbs along the side of her hands.   

“Your father is here,” Allison said.

She walked away, her hair falling down her back in a cascade of loose curls, and Chris closed his eyes for a moment.

**Author's Note:**

> In terms of historical accuracy, I accept it's basically impossible for Peter to have inherited a title from Talia (as primogeniture would have ensured he was Lord Hale before she got anywhere near the title, even assuming it was one of the rare titles which could be transmitted to a woman). So I think the best way to rationalise that is to imagine that the entailment was very unusual, and allowed the existing Earl/Countess to name an heir from among their relatives. Or you could just not think about it. That works too. 
> 
> Similarly, I know it's unusual for an Earl to be Lord [Surname] instead of Lord [name of earldom], but it wasn't unheard of. And if you're interested, Chris was knighted (purportedly because of his business interests, in reality because he kills monsters for Queen Victoria).
> 
> "Foxed" is one of my favourite slang Victorian terms.


End file.
